Graviora Manent
by twelve of malfoy
Summary: The worst is yet to come. Harry's plans for seventh year unravel with the advent of an Important Discovery, as well as an unforeseen friendship with a trio of Muggles. When they're targeted by Voldemort, can Harry save them without sacrificing his cause?
1. Epistolary

**Notes**: Yes, yes, I know. Who wants to read a load of letters, especially when many of them have nothing to do with one another? But don't give up on Graviora Manent just yet; this is the only chapter that will be written in an epistolary style, and it's necessary in order to 'paint the backdrop,' so to speak, and set up a starting point for several subplots. So please - persevere! You won't regret it, I promise.

And, of course, don't forget to review - it's good karma. : )

* * *

"_A letter is an unannounced visit, the postman the agent of rude surprises."_

—Friedrich Nietzsche

* * *

I.  
Epistolary

24 June, 1997

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_I cannot help but think it prudent to inform you of a process which our late Headmaster had set into action, and which has finally come to fruition in a manner that I believe you will find most rewarding. As you know, it is hardly beneficial to you, of all students, to be forbidden from practicing magic over the summer. It is coming a little late, I know, with barely more than a month left until you come of age, but this little window of time may make all the difference, as I know that you have had more contact with the wizarding world than just your letters to Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger. Minister Scrimgeour has kindly agreed that all underage magic occurring in Little Whinging this summer will be wholly ignored. _

_I do not want you to think that this means you can engage in any sort of tomfoolery. In exchange for this lenience, I was obliged to sign a magical contract saying that Hogwarts would be monitoring all of your spell-castings. If you do anything too conspicuous or dangerous, I'm afraid your license may be revoked until your birthday. Do not be surprised if you see Fawkes and a few of his friends about, for they have agreed to take an active part in monitoring your situation._

_Again, Mr. Potter, I would like to impress upon you the gravity of this situation. Never, since its establishment, has the Ministry of Magic relaxed its stance on underage magic, particularly for one solitary student. This is quite an honor, and very much a burden. I am trusting you to behave honorably, as I know it is in your capacity to do so, just as it was in your father's, for all of his resemblance in personality to a certain set of twins. Do not disappoint me, Mr. Potter, or our late friend. He had the utmost faith in you, and I do as well. Use your time wisely, and remember that, should you need anything in the way of materials or advice, I will be at Hogwarts all summer._

_I also expect your Transfiguration summer assignment to be fully completed and exemplary, as well as all other coursework. This is not a license to play around, it is an opportunity to further your education towards your immediate goals._

_Yours most sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Post-script: I have also enclosed a letter addressed to your aunt, Petunia Dursley. Do not read it. Give it to her, and do not leave the room until you are certain that she has read and fully comprehended the message. You should be able to tell._

**-oooo-**_  
_

June 26, 1997

_Dear Professor McGonagall,_

_I've started this letter four times now, and I still can't quite figure out how to thank you for this. A whole summer spent practicing, without Ministry interference, will definitely be valuable. And I promise to be careful about what spells I cast where; the shield charms that Tonks taught me last Christmas holiday at you-know-where will come in handy. _

_I look forward to seeing Fawkes, and let him—and his _friends—_know that now, the Dursleys can't bar them from seeing me. I'd be very grateful for any news they could pass on via note, or whatever. Do they have some sort of innate invisibility charm? I'm afraid they'd all rather stand out in this area. Be sure to let them know._

_You'll be glad to know that I already have my assignments for Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures finished, and I've just started on my project for Transfiguration. There isn't much information on Animagus theory that I can find here, and the Transfiguration texts from previous years have barely touched on the subject, but my friends have promised to send on any useful texts they come across._

_I delivered your letter to Aunt Petunia, as instructed; she read it three times without my having to say anything, turned chalk white, and threw it down the garbage disposal. I think you must have put a self-destructive charm on it, because it exploded halfway down. Uncle Vernon was yelling for hours. Right on, Professor! I don't think he was even so angry when the Weasleys blew up half the living room after hooking it up to the Floo Network. Anyway, Aunt Petunia knows. _

_Thank you again, for this opportunity and for your trust. I won't let you down._

_Sincerely,_

_Harry Potter_

**-oooo-**_  
_

June 26, 1997

_Dear Dung,_

_McGonagall's suspicious. Remember what Moody said, and keep your cards close—you never know who's looking over your shoulder._

_Let me know when to send Hedwig._

_Warmest,_

_Harry_

**-oooo-**_  
_

26 June, 1997

_Dear Professor Lupin,_

_I've just received the letter from Professor McGonagall about you-know-what—I think it must have been delayed by those storms that passed through a while ago. The school owl that delivered it looked pretty ragged. Is this what you were hinting at before I left Hogwarts? Because it's bloody _brilliant! _To think that Dumbledore had enough faith in me to set this up... and to think that McGonagall trusted me enough to follow through with the plan! I'd've expected her to forbid it._

_Thanks again for those texts on Animagi and the Defense Against the Dark Arts—they've already come in handy. And thank whichever of Fawkes' Phoenix friends dropped by during the middle of the night to set up the new wards around Privet Drive—from what I can tell, they're massive. It would take the magical version of an armored tank to get through these!_

_And in response to the questions that I know Mrs. Weasley will ask as soon as she's found out you've heard from me: I AM FINE. I AM DOING WELL. I AM STUDYING EVERY DAY, AND SLEEPING ENOUGH, AND EATING REGULARLY._ _Oh, and let her know that that package of cakes and pasties she sent me a few days ago has been a life-saver; Dudley's on a diet for boxing, so it's back to grated cucumber and cottage cheese three times a day, with maybe a slice of unsweetened grapefruit for special occasions. Not even Dobby could survive on this little food—I'm positive that Dudley must have a secret stash somewhere, to stay as big as he is. _

_Give my regards to Tonks when you see her. (And yes, I am in fact grinning cheekily as I write this, you lucky dog!)_

_Hope to see you soon—let me know when I can come to stay with you!_

_Harry_

**-oooo-**_  
_

29 June, 1997

_Dear Ron,_

_I'm sorry it's taken me so long to write back, but things have been crazy here. My mother has enlisted me into helping her pack up half the house for our trip to Paris—and you wouldn't _believe_ who stopped by yesterday! Out of nowhere (and I mean that quite literally—she Apparated in and nearly gave my father a stroke), Fleur appeared and offered for us to stay with her family on their estate, about an hour's drive out of Paris. Why, you ask? The most inane reason I've ever heard, I answer—she says 'zat we are almozt familee, what wis ze cheeldren so fond of each uzzer, and Ron be-eeng ze bruzzer of my beloveed Beel.' Children, Ron! Children! I'm just as tall as her, and only a few years younger! I can't _believe _her nerve!_

_Anyway, I actually did not write just to complain about your soon-to-be sister-in-law, though I must say, I've had about enough Phlegm in the last twenty-six hours to last me several lifetimes. I was actually wondering whether or not your mother would be completely and utterly averse to my perhaps staying with you lot at the Burrow this summer, or wherever it is you'll be. I've already checked with my parents, just in case she does agree, and though they seem sort of disappointed, they both agreed that it was fine. After all, I really don't fancy going to Paris anymore, and I'd rather spend my time with you and Harry getting ready for next year. It's much more important, and I know that both of you are awful at studying unless I'm there to nag you about it. Granted, Ginny could do well in my stead, but she'd still rather be playing Quidditch with you boys._

_And now that I think about it... have you gotten any letters from Harry since school ended? I mean, I know it's only been about a week, but he's always been such a conscientious correspondent, and so prompt with his replies... I must have sent him three letters by now, and I haven't seen wing nor tail of Hedwig. It may seem a little foolish, but I'm getting rather worried. _

_Let me know what your mother says—and you may try getting Phlegm to convince her, as well. I fancy she thinks of us as a couple, or something ludicrous like that, and we already know that she can be pretty ruddy persuasive. _

_Love,_

_Hermione_

**-oooo-**_  
_

30 June, 1997

_Dear Hermione,_

_SHE SAID YES! Turns out I didn't need to recruit Fleur, after all—I'd barely gotten the words out when Mum said, 'Of course she can, dear!' Just like that! We'll be here most of the summer, but we're probably going to go visit with Lupin in late July or early August. She's already got a bed set up for you in Ginny's room, and Ginny's excited. Come to think of it, so are Fred and George. I think they reckon they can finally harness your immense intellectual power for evil, or some rubbish like that. Good thing they'll be staying in their flat in Diagon Alley most of the time, or you'd be in trouble!_

_I haven't heard back from Harry yet, either, and you're not the only one who's getting worried. I know he wrote Lupin—I overheard him passing on a message from Harry to Mum about her cakes, or something—but he hasn't responded to any of my letters. And I've sent _four!_ You're right, this really isn't like him. I need to ask him about our plans for next year, too._

_I wonder... you don't think his mail is being watched, do you? You don't think someone is intercepting our letters? It's not impossible... but I'd rather not think about the implications. D'you think I should ask Lupin about this?_

_Love,_

_Ron  
_

_P.S. –Looking forward to kicking your arse at chess!_

**-oooo-**_  
_

30 June, 1997

_Dear Minerva,_

_Sorry it took me so long to reply—I've been visiting with some extended family in Wales. Naturally my uncles weren't too thrilled with our proposition, but I was pleasantly surprised to find that my aunts were very taken with the possibility. I think they've finally come to the conclusion that they've been living under my uncles' thumbs for too long. They're a force to be reckoned with, as well. The eldest of my aunts, Ulrika, has agreed to meet with you to discuss it further—but I have to warn you. This is very dangerous for them, and some are still vacillating because of that. We must make this as safe for them as possible. My uncles are excessively brutal, and would not shrink from homicide. I will trust you to make all necessary arrangements, but if you feel you need my advice on any particulars, send a homing owl. There's no telling where I'll be for the next few weeks, and all these hints of what is happening are beginning to make 'Dora fret, though she pretends that's not true. I'd rather she was completely left out of this business, for her own safety._

_I have indeed heard from Harry, and not long after he heard from you, apparently. He's very grateful for this opportunity, and I think he is especially touched that you and Dumbledore (rest him) trust him enough to go through with this._

_I have to say, though, I'm concerned. It's barely a week since the summer holiday has started, and he's already finished with half of his homework—and asking for more books to study! I've already relayed to him the complete set of seventh-year books, and several from my own personal collection. Not all of them have been... upbeat, if you know what I mean. I'm afraid he's trying to drown his grief in work, and that he will burn out before long—but I don't know what to do about it! When Lily did the same thing, after her parents' death in her seventh year, James knew just how to distract her from it. But my work keeps me away from him, and I'm afraid that, with only the Durlseys to keep him company, he'll only hurt himself._

_Worse yet, I've just received letters from both Hermione and Ron, expressing their fears about Harry. They say that they've had no word from him whatsoever, which, I agree with them, is not like Harry at all. It won't do anyone any good for him to become reclusive, and least of all Harry himself. I know you've noticed the recent turn his character has taken, and marked it as... familiar. I can't help but admit that I'm afraid for him. Do you have any advice, as a mother _or _a headmistress?_

_Sincerely (and anxiously),_

_Remus J. Lupin_

**-oooo-**_  
_

2 July, 1997

_Dear Ron,_

_Just so you know, I've sent another copy of this letter to Hermione. I want you both to hear this, in exactly the same words. I've put quite a lot of thought into it, and want you to consider what I have to say very carefully._

_Mate, you can't begin to understand how much I appreciate what you and Hermione are trying to do for me. It makes me feel... well... it's good to know that I have such fantastic friends to rely on. But__this is something I have to do alone. _

_I know you mean well, both of you do, but for your own safety (and my own mental health), I just _can't _place you in this sort of danger. It's bad enough that you two won't pretend to hate me—and you know that our friendship has put you at the top of Tom's blacklist. I can't risk you like that. Besides, Hermione has to finish Hogwarts—how else will she become the youngest ever Minister of Magic, and boot Scrimgeour out of office? And don't forget, you are going to be an Auror, and I very much doubt that our plans will be very conducive to studying for the N.E.W.T.s. _

_So, that's it, then. I'm doing this alone. If you even think about protesting, I'll hex you into last week._

_Yours always,_

_Harry_

**-oooo-**_  
_

Harry lay down his quill and pursed his lips, his dark green eyes traveling back over the seventeenth and final draft of this letter. He had another, just like it, written to Hermione; it was already sealed up and ready to go, as soon as Hedwig returned from her hunting trip.

He exhaled heavily through his nose, grimacing, and folded Ron's letter. Without a candle to heat the sealing wax, he'd had to resort to using the heat from his light bulb; he sealed it with the intricate stag motif that he'd found at Flourish and Blotts the previous year, and laid it to one side.

Harry stood and stretched his shoulders, aching from being hunched over books all day. How Hermione managed it, he would never know. He cocked his head to one side as he noticed that, despite the immensity of his hand-me-downs, his wrists showed from beyond the cuffs of his sleeves. A growth spurt would be very welcome right now. If he showed up at the final battle in his current state—much shorter than an almost-seventeen-year-old should be, and pathetically thin—Voldemort would more likely die from laughter than any curse Harry could throw at him. He sneered, picturing that cold, pale face contorted in horrible mirth; gritting his teeth and clenching his fists so hard that his fingernails dug into the fleshy part of his palm, Harry swore that he would _never_ let that happen. Voldemort would not laugh at the puny boy who was destined to die by his hand. He would plead for mercy before the man destined to kill him.

A rustling, metallic sound jolted him from his thoughts, and he looked towards the window to see Hedwig and another owl hovering outside of his window. The snowy owl had just snapped at the screen with her beak to get his attention.

He hurried over and pulled out the screen, jumping back as the owls flapped awkwardly into the room, a heavy bundle strung between them. Hedwig's tawny companion looked done-in, and once he had released the package, Harry carried him over to Hedwig's cage for a drink. His own owl remained perched atop the bundle, cooing impatiently.

"All right, girl, let's see what we've got," Harry said as he turned his attention back to the long-awaited package. This past week had passed as slowly as cold treacle, and it was all he could do to keep his mind on his schoolwork. His thoughts kept wandering back to this package, this moment... and the moments that would follow it.

With steady fingers, he untied the twine and ripped away the brown paper covering. In the dying light of day, four books lay in a state of deceptive innocence, browned by time and ragged by use, though they all had a slightly musty smell that told Harry they hadn't been used for decades—centuries, maybe. They were old enough. The youngest of the bunch had been published in 1649, and it was written in German. With a thwarted sigh, Harry laid it aside. Unless he miraculously learned to speak another language over night, it would do him little good.

The other three looked more promising, though. Two of them were thin, barely two hundred pages in length, but the third and most imposing of the collection was colossal. It clocked in at—he could only estimate based on past experience with some of Hogwarts' books—well over a thousand pages, and seemed to have been hand-written sometime shortly after the reign of King Arthur. It was probably the only one of its kind, a true endangered species.

Harry ran his fingers in admiration over the broken bindings and dark brown cracked leather. Feeling a light indentation, he brushed away a thin, stubborn coating of grime. Handmade gilt letters appeared. _Blackest Magicke_.

'_Blackest Magicke_,'_ indeed, _Harry thought with a contemplative frown.

By sundown, the Boy Who Lived was up to his eyeballs in the Dark Arts.


	2. Atlas Has Green Eyes

_He put the ring in his pocket almost without thinking; certainly it did not seem of any particular use at the moment._

—J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit

**

* * *

**  
II.  
Atlas Has Green Eyes

On a gray day early in the month of July, a black-haired teenage boy waited, breathless, on the wrong side of the front door. His fingers were closed around the cool metal of the doorknob, and his eyes, behind round-framed glasses, were shut as he listened. No one stirred inside the house. He waited a few more seconds, and then peeped in through the crack. Inside, the furniture loomed like massive, sagging beasts, the bellies of the sofas scraping against the carpeted floor (weighted down from years of bearing the burden of Dursley the youngest), and the chairs slumped and wilting in the murky atmosphere. When nothing moved, he allowed himself to breathe and closed the heavy front door, careful to be as quiet as possible.

Harry lingered for a moment, waiting for Aunt Petunia to come out screeching or for Uncle Vernon to throw open the door and start walloping him with whatever was closest at hand (an umbrella, most likely, since the stand was right inside the doorway). When no punishment seemed immediately forthcoming, he jolted away from the house in an explosion of movement, jogging down the silent, sleepy street. His battered shoulder bag bounced against his thigh. The Gryffindor seal above the clasp had been covered up with the cheapest patch he could find at the local dollar store in Little Whinging, a green kokopelli figure holding a bong instead of a flute. Aunt Petunia had had a fit when she saw it, which only made the experience all the more enjoyable for Harry. The Dursleys were now convinced that he was not only a freak, but a pothead.

It was uncommonly cool for this time of year. The nascent sun was blotted from the sky by a menacing bank of clouds, the blue-black color of a new bruise. He slowed his pace as he turned onto Magnolia Crescent, and thought he saw a flash of light out of the corner of his eye. About ten seconds later, a low growl of thunder whispered through Little Whinging, promising a stormy day. Harry shrugged his threadbare sweatshirt higher and stuffed his hands into his pockets, continuing on his way to the park.

After two weeks of Privet Drive, Harry found even this inclement weather more welcoming than anything within the Dursleys' house. There he found nothing but cold glares and even colder shoulders—at least out here he was free from his stuffy room. Uncle Vernon had nailed the window permanently shut while Harry was away at school.

Far from being turned back by the coming storm, he found himself savoring that tingling sensation that danced delicately—almost imperceptibly—over his exposed skin, a foreboding of lightning. Anyway, the sky above his head was still a clear, pale blue; he still had a good hour of study time before he would have to seek shelter. Bearing this in mind, Harry picked up his pace, striding quickly down Magnolia Crescent towards the park.

Little Whinging was still asleep. The only person that Harry saw on his short trek was a mailman, who looked startled to see a teenage boy out so early. No, not startled—suspicious. Of course. Little Whinging was a small town, and everybody knew about the delinquent who lived with the Dursleys, that boy who went to St. Whatsit's Penitentiary, or whatever it was called.

As they approached one another, moving from opposite ends of a short side street off Magnolia Crescent, Harry dropped his gaze, consciously evening out his breath and concentrating. The black lower edge of his glasses cut a dark, curved swath across his vision, separating the clear and the indistinct. He slipped his wand out of his pocket and up into his sleeve, and discreetly pointed it towards the mailman, muttering something under his breath.

Discordantly foreign images and sensations jostled in beside his own, and his mind rebelled for a moment before succumbing to the strange new phenomenon. Legilimency was as bizarre for the caster as the victim, Harry had learned in the last week. He still wasn't used to it, having given up on trying to read Aunt Petunia's thoughts after being thoroughly disgusted by her lascivious feelings towards Mrs. Next-Door's brother-in-law, who was staying for the summer. Dudley thought of nothing but boxing, food, boxing, girls, boxing, maintaining his reputation, and boxing, so Harry had quickly dropped him as a possibility, and he didn't even want to attempt Legilimency on Uncle Vernon. Merlin only knew what sort of rubbish he'd find in _that_ head.

He pushed these reflections away and concentrated on the thoughts in his head that were not his own. _...Looks like he's going to school. Doesn't he know it's July? Probably got cherry bombs or something in his bag. Or drugs. Wouldn't be surprised. Doubtless going to meet another one of his ilk..._

With a derisive, half-offended snort, Harry dropped the spell just as he and the mailman drew abreast of one another. He looked up and met the middle-aged man's curious glare with an even stare of his own. He'd been practicing that look—after all, if McGonagall and Dumbledore (Merlin rest him) could use Looks to such an effect as they did (had), Harry could, as well. It would probably be a useful skill. So he'd started cultivating a Look of his own in front of the tiny, battered mirror in his room, arranging his face muscle by muscle into the coldest, most disdainfully disinterested expression he could manage.

The mailman responded just as Harry wished, shuddering involuntarily and looking away, his footsteps moving faster as he continued past the teenage boy. Harry waited a few moments and then grinned. _Well, my Legilimency's improving. I only wish I had someone to practice Occlumency with_.

Abruptly, the cold blank air fell about him again. Even something as innocuous as Occlumency brought to mind the Traitor, as he referred to Snape. The feeling of _that man's_ name in his mind, on his tongue, was poison, so he refrained from using it at all now, even mentally. That hooked, pallid face haunted his dreams, a sneer set beneath the beaklike nose, the black brows drawn down together over eyes like chips of flint, cold and opaque.

And always, as he stood before the Traitor in those dreams, frozen with hatred, Harry could feel a _presence_ behind him, and smell something sweet and tart—like sherbet lemons.

His throat felt thick with emotion. He shook his head violently, as though the action could fling all memories of the Traitor (and what he had done) out of his mind. As it was, his glasses very nearly flew off his face, and he had to lift a hand to straighten them and brush the hair out of his eyes. It was longer than it ever had been before, thick and shaggy; he knew it only added to his felonious appearance, but didn't bother to trim it. In fact, he realized as he scratched his bristly cheek, he had forgotten to shave the last few days. He must look like some sort of homeless vagrant.

The fact of the matter was time had finally had its effect on Harry. When he looked into the mirror, he no longer saw a boy hiding his fear behind a brave, scarred façade. He saw a young man, determined and unwavering in his goals—or, more accurately, _goal_. His face was more angular than he remembered it being, having lost any of the roundness that his indigent childhood had offered; his shoulders were stronger and broader, developed by long Quidditch practices and longer hours spent doing chores around Number Four, Privet Drive. There was a sort of grim resolve about his mouth, a look reminiscent of reserved anguish. Despite this gravity, he wasn't unattractive. In fact, Harry was rather pleased with how he'd turned out. He certainly resembled James Potter, and now in more than just a vague, familial resemblance sort of way. One day last week he'd held a photograph of his father up beside his own reflection, and the similitude had startled him. No wonder he was always being told how very like James he looked!

His mother had left her mark on him, as well, and it became clearer every day. All reports declared Lily Potter to be one of the most brilliant witches of her day, a rival to the legendary Hermione Granger, whose name had become a Hogwarts byword (and synonym for 'swot'). As he sought refuge in his books, he found himself recalling more, being able to focus with increased ease, and it seemed that every day he uncovered a new and untapped reserve of intellect or power. Using books and his own intuition, he had taught himself the tricks behind Legilimency, which was deceptively similar to its foil, Occlumency. It had been several days before he could actually apply the spell, but now he was progressing in leaps and bounds, as wayward and uncoordinated as they were. He knew everything about Horcruxes that the first two texts contained; if he had wanted to, he could've made one himself with little difficulty.

His steps quickened as he crossed from pavement to dew-silvered grass, aimed at a low-slung ash. The lightning-struck tree served as his library and study here in Little Whinging. His skin was alive with electricity, and his mind churning with unease.

He could make one himself with little difficulty. And he had considered it more than once during the early summer nights, those long stretches of darkness that made the last two weeks feel more like two months. After all, if he was completely honest with himself, what were the chances of a sixteen-year-old wizard defeating the man (if he could be called that) who had struck fear into the hearts of hundreds of thousands over so many decades? Even the story of David and Goliath was no consolation to the heartsick young man: in the real world, giants didn't fall so easily.

He was jaded, that was his problem. Too many years of unimaginable stress, too many years spent looking over his shoulder, too many years of grieving and griping and procrastinating—

Too many years of being selfish.

That selfishness prompted a comfortable, intoxicating sense of invincibility in him. Surely he couldn't die, if he didn't want to. It just couldn't happen.

It could. Sirius hadn't wanted to die. Neither had Dumbledore. And try as he might, Harry could not dispel from his mind the fleeting look of surprise on Cedric Diggory's face as a bolt of light, as green as Harry's own eyes, struck him full in the chest.

But recognition is the first step towards change, or so he'd read at some point in the hazy past. He would fight the selfishness of youth as hard as he could from now on. He realized now, after so many nights spent studying and trying not to listen to Dumbledore's voice as it whispered in his ear, that his purpose in life wasn't to be as normal as possible, or to hide from the public or try to avoid his fate. He wouldn't run from the phantasm of his prophesied future anymore. He would accept his role in this terrible game.

This resolution made him bold. He had barely been in Surrey for ten minutes when he sat down and wrote a letter to Mundungus Fletcher, the Order's resident felon (a felon, despite his many gaffes, who was devoted to the memories of Sirius Black and Albus Dumbledore, and most of all to the Boy Who Lived), asking him to find as many books on Very Dark Magic, especially in regard to artifacts and souls, as possible. Since then, he had begun to regularly request items from the crooked wizard—from texts on Legilimency, Occlumency, and wandless magic to such mundane items as Chocolate Frogs and Owl Treats for Hedwig. Now, with this special dispensation from the Ministry, Harry was wallowing in magic of varying shades of white and gray—and even studying (though never practicing) the Dark Arts. It couldn't hurt to know what the enemy would throw at him. The Dursleys avoided him like the plague, even going so far as telling him not to cook or clean for them anymore (though he reckoned that was because Aunt Petunia was afraid he'd poison them or hex something). He'd been so busy that he hadn't even looked at his owl post in over a week.

For the first time in his life, Harry Potter took himself seriously—and because of this, so did others.

McGonagall, in her spare letters, expressed pleasure at Harry's professed diligence and tenacity. Lupin stopped trying to make him feel better, and seemed to appreciate that the boy had finally grasped the fact that life was _not_ fair, and probably never would be—especially for Harry. He hadn't read any of Hermione or Ron's letters—he'd received a veritable flood of them in this last week and a half—figuring that they were probably full of either each other or their plans for next year, all of which could be tackled when Harry joined them after his seventeenth birthday.

He didn't know how they'd react to the changes that were so evident even to himself. Hermione would be pleased by his increased bookishness, but how she would respond to his newfound, steady confidence—which, he had to admit, occasionally took even Harry by surprise—was beyond him. And what of Ron? Harry hadn't turned into an old man over night, but he couldn't see himself being quite as amused by some of their past pursuits as he had been before.

Ron would stick by him, though—Harry knew this as an established truth, just as he knew that he would sell his life dearly to Tom Riddle. But it hurt him to admit that he wasn't as certain of Hermione. She had always been more independent than them, and though she had suffered during their numerous arguments, had fared better on her own than either Ron or Harry would have. She would always support him and their cause, of course; his question was, would she support Harry, or the Boy Who Lived?

And he couldn't help but wonder what Ginny would make of his transformation from the Boy Who Lived to the Man Who Intended to Keep Living. Would she hate him? How could she not hate someone who had come to understand the appeal of a Horcrux, even if the purpose behind such an action on his part would be to preserve himself so he could protect others?

Certainly, Harry was no longer the boy he'd been a bare two weeks ago. Every day he grew a little more jaded, a little more cynical, a little less inclined to believe that everything would turn out all right. There was no such certainty in the world after youth—there was no master plan written to his exact desires. It was on his shoulders.

As he pondered his responsibilities, he settled down beneath the lightning-struck tree and opened one textbook. Another, last year's History of Magic book, served as an improvised writing desk while balanced on his lap. A few leafs of parchment and that day's copy of the _Daily Prophet_ sat nearby, weighted down by _Blackest Magicke_.

Luck, however, was not with him today. No sooner had he wrenched himself from his inner world and become entranced by the old language and even older magic than something wet fell against his cheek, splattering up to mar his clean lenses. Blinking in surprise, Harry lifted his head. Outside of the ash's protective embrace, the rain had begun in earnest, pattering percussively against the grass and cement.

"Bloody hell," he muttered grimly, glowering in general at the rain-spattered park.

He stretched to grab his shoulder bag, and unceremoniously stuffed his papers into it before they were completely ruined, jammed the books down on top of them, and staggered to his feet, slipping on the wet grass. When he regained his balance, he set off at a run for the pavilion in the center of the park, cobbled paths radiating out from it like rays from a stylized sun to meet the sidewalk that marked the park's perimeter.

Lightning flickered too close, momentarily blinding him. The thunder that followed was not a rumble, not a growl—it was a shock, a harsh blow to his ears and head. He winced, his trainers sliding on the slick cobbles as he reached the pavilion. He tripped up the last few steps and landed on the pavilion floor on his hands and knees, soaked and panting. The rough wood floor scraped the skin off the heels of his hands. Sucking his breath in painfully, he slid the bag off his shoulder and turned so that he was sitting on the top stair, just within the overhang's protection.

He fingered the raw flesh. It was surprising that, after all the agony he'd been through in his life—Cruciatus Curses, Quidditch mishaps, fights, falls, and that bloody scar—something as insignificant as a skinned hand could hurt so strongly. He smiled at the irony of the concept and held his right hand over the left. His wandless magic was still very weak, and he could only perform small charms with his wand hand. Nevertheless, it was growing.

Wandless magic was more complex because it required the user to consider not the conduit, but the magic itself. To do this, the user had to be aware of his very blood, of the way the life surged within his body, of the instinctual way in which the mind tapped this supply. He chewed his lip for a moment, waiting to feel a certain indescribable twist of his consciousness, and then whispered, "_Percuro_."

There was a flash of pain as brief and intense as the lightning flickering around the park, transforming the verdant trees into stark silhouettes for fractions of a heartbeat, and then new, soft, pink skin formed over the tender area before his very eyes. He smiled, satisfied. He discreetly performed the same charm over his right hand using his wand, now tucked into the left sleeve of his red, bedraggled sweatshirt.

He didn't hear the footsteps—the cacophony of thunder and hard rain pelting against the pavilion roof (the storm had really set in now) was too loud to allow that. But he felt the running steps reverberating through the wood beneath him, and rose quickly to his feet, turning to meet this unforeseen intruder with caution and alarm.

She didn't seem to notice him, but leaned against one of the plain, cylindrical pillars, her head tipped back against the wood. She was breathing hard, her cheeks flushed with exertion, and her black hair clung to the pale, rosy skin of her face and neck in stark curls. Her glasses were spattered with raindrops, and she cursed quietly as she attempted in vain to dry them off on her waterlogged, long-sleeved shirt, which bore the name of Stonewall High's drama association. "Damn."

Harry observed her unnoticed for another brief minute. She was short and of an average weight. In fact, each and every one of her visible characteristics seemed to be the epitome of average.

At least, so it seemed until she turned her eyes towards Harry, alerted to his presence by some small sound. They were a pale, pale blue, circumscribed by a ring so dark it almost matched the black, angular frames of her glasses.

"Oh," she said, as surprised by his sudden appearance as he was by hers. "Wotcher."

"Hello," he said as she went back to attempting to dry her glasses. Moving slowly—everything felt so sluggish with the heavy drumming of rain on the roof above them and the echoing thunder that rolled around Little Whinging, encasing it in a sphere of sound—he went over to join her. "That's not going to do much good. Mind if I...?" he asked, holding one hand out.

Smiling gratefully, she passed him the glasses. He dried them on the hem of his shirt, which had been partially protected by his sweatshirt and was, at the very least, not as soaked as her dark gray top, and passed them back. She replaced them, blinking briefly as her eyes readjusted to the world's clarity, and grinned at him. "Thanks."

"No problem."

They stood in silence for a few more awkward moments, neither knowing quite what to say. At one point, she drew in her breath as though preparing to speak, but seemed to think better of what she'd been about to say. She kept her peace—at least for another few seconds.

"You're Harry, right?" she asked. "Harry Potter?"

He nodded slightly, frowning and peering at her. She smiled; the expression was delightfully crooked and touched every feature. Her pale eyes narrowed and crinkled up in the corners, and he abruptly remembered something. A small boy in baggy clothing and broken glasses was running away from a posse of larger boys when a hand shot out and dragged him around a corner. His savior, a short girl in his form, pressed one finger to her lips, and motioned towards the entrance to the back hallway. Still panting from the effort of the chase, the malnourished boy obediently hid behind the opened door just before his tormentors arrived. For a few moments, there came the sound of conversation as the boys interrogated the black-haired girl. Her answers were vague and blithe, given with a smile. When they left, her head appeared around the side of the door. _You can come out now, kid_.

"Ev—" he started, then blinked and squinted, satisfied to find the lines of the child's face echoed and refined in the countenance of the girl before him. "Evangeline."

She nodded brightly, pleased at being recognized without prompting. "Angie MacTavish. You remembered!"

"You saved me a beating," he said with a smile, genuinely glad to see her. "Of course I remembered!"

Her smile was just as warm now as it had been then. "So, kid. Where've you been?"

His own cheery expression faded a little with the on-set of more self-pity. Willfully, he choked it down and made himself deliver the answer that his aunt and uncle had provided him with and obliged him to. "St. Brutus'."

She rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and Piers Polkiss is the next Mr. Universe. _St. Brutus' Center for Incurably Criminal Boys_." She snorted. "First of all, no one in their right mind would name an actual institution something as inane as _that_. Second, you're no more a criminal mastermind than I am a ballroom dancer."

He brightened under her blunt appraisal, but she just eyed him up and down.

"The brawn behind the brain, perhaps," she amended her judgment. "You're a little twiggy, but you look rather fit. Oh! Not that you look stupid or anything. Bother. It was a joke," she said, flushing at his startled expression. "Sorry."

He laughed. "It's all right. I was just—surprised. You reminded me of someone else I know." The monster in his chest keened, sounding to Harry's mental ear rather like a lonely wolf howling at the moon.

"Ah, someone from this mystery school of yours. C'mon, now, Potter. Where is it?"

"I can't tell you."

"Oh?"

"No."

"I bet I could get it out of you. I'd give you—oh, maybe three days, given constant inveiglement. You're the type that seems to be rather resistant to wheedling."

He smiled, amused by her amiable chatter. "What type is that?"

"Tall, dark, and handsome," she quipped, though he could only be considered tall in relation to her own dearth of height. "Bet you've got a girlfriend for every day of the week at your mystery school, don't you, kid?" she asked with an affable smirk. This was the sort of teasing that the Weasleys participated in, this affectionate ribbing, and it was an entirely new (and very enjoyable) experience for Harry, even if the subject was somewhat painful.

"Every day of the week?" he scoffed, playing along gleefully. "I have a girlfriend for every _meal_ of every day of the week."

"Tsk, kid. No one ever told you cannibalism was a bad thing?"

He laughed out loud at that. She grinned, but then flinched, jumping at a particularly violent growl of thunder.

"Bloody hell, this storm's a _beast_."

Harry nodded in companionable acquiescence to the comment, but was really contemplating whether or not to ask Angie if she wanted to meet again. He could definitely use a friend while he was trapped in the Muggle world—but could he risk discovery? And—

His train of thought was interrupted as Angie's eyes drifted downward, attracted by movement. She darted to the side and caught the newspaper that blew by, ripped from Harry's half-open bag by the howling, rain-laden wind, and made as if to hand it to him. Her eyes fell to the front page halfway through the motion, and she stopped, staring.

Harry's blood ran cold. A groan was wrenched from the very depths of his gut as he saw her eyes widen—

"The pictures are moving!"


	3. The Road to Disaster

_'Treachery, treachery I fear.'_

—Éomer, J.R.R. Tolkien's The Return of the King

**

* * *

**  
III.  
The Road to Disaster

"The pictures are moving!"

If his life was a Muggle movie, the entire world would have stopped just then. The rain would hang like diamonds in the air, thunder would echo interminably, and a fly (miraculously exempt from the universal freeze) would zoom into Evangeline MacTavish's gaping mouth.

His life, however, was decidedly stranger than a Muggle movie. The rain kept falling and no freeze-defying insect appeared, though the thunder did continue to grumble through Little Whinging. Rather, _Harry_ was frozen. Try as he might, he was as inert as he had been less than a month ago, when Dumbledore (something twinged inside him) cast an _Immobulus_ charm at him. The results of this motionlessness looked to be just as disastrous as the results of that one had been, too.

"_Daily Prophet, Premier Newspaper of the Wizarding World Since 962 AD_," she read. "_Another Controversial Choice by Scrimgeour: Weasley Made Chief Muggle Liaison_. This—wow! Muggle." She grinned, savoring the flavor of the strange word on her tongue. She looked up, meeting Harry's eyes. "This is _wi_—Harry?"

And he unfroze. In seconds, he was standing over her, taking full advantage of his newly cultivated Look and the fact that she was barely more than five foot. "Angie," he said. "Give me the paper."

"Just a sec, Harry—this is so _wicked_—"

"Angie!" His voice crept up a few decibel levels. "Hand me the paper!" He made a grab for it, but she turned, placing her body between his hands and the _Prophet_, her lips moving silently as she read. Harry could see the picture over her shoulder—Scrimgeour, a dour expression on his face, was congratulating a grinning Arthur Weasley. "Evangeline!"

"Hold on," she said, holding up one finger to forestall him. Harry growled, infuriated, and lunged for the paper. "Wait, no-_oooh_!"

The protest transformed into a shriek as Angie attempted to dodge Harry's grasping hands and instead found only a slick patch of wood. Her feet shot out from under her, and as Harry watched she slipped the few inches to the edge of the top stair. He pounced forward to grab her, but Angie was faster than he was; her free hand swept through the air and latched onto the first thing it hit—Harry's sweatshirt. His curse joined her startled shriek as they toppled down the three stairs, landing hard on the wet concrete below.

"_Shit_," Harry hissed, rolling over and clutching at his wrist, which had been trapped at a strange angle between his body and the sidewalk. He ground his teeth, levering himself to his knees with one elbow. The treacherous newspaper was only a few feet away—he lurched forward and grabbed it, stuffing it hastily into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

As he rose to his feet, he heard a low moan behind him. A chill (far more familiar than he would have liked) tickled up his spine, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. He whirled.

Angie lay still on the sidewalk, rain splattering on her pale face. Her eyebrows were scrunched together in pain.

"Evangeline?" he asked, his voice hesitant. "Angie? Are you all right?"

She tried to lift her head, but paled visibly in the attempt and let it fall back to its previous position. An agonized moan emanated from her throat, and Harry chewed his lip, kneeling beside her. _Not another one—Merlin, I'm so sorry! Bugger the stupid newspaper! The first Muggle who's had a kind word for me in sixteen years, and I bloody kill her! _ "Angie? Can you hear me? What hurts? Who's the PM? Can you count backwards from ten? How many fing—"

One hand shot up and grasped his, which he had been holding in front of her face. "Harry?"

Relief poured through him like butterbeer. "Yeah?"

"Shut it and help me up. I think... I think I hit my head. Oh, and 'Tony Blair,' 'ten-nine-eight-seven-six-five-four-three-two-one,' and 'two.' I think."

"Close enough," Harry said with a strained smile. It was close—but not as close as he'd like. Double vision was a bad thing. Was half vision worse? He extended his hand to her, and she weakly wrapped her own fingers around his. He could barely feel her grip. _That won't do._ He released her hand, bent over, and slid his hands under her waist.

"What—" Before she could complete the protest, he'd bodily lifted her and set her back on her feet. She swayed for a moment, leaning gratefully against him. "Thanks, kid. I—yeah, thanks." She shook her head, looking confused, and then winced. "Ow."

Harry cringed. "Shit, Angie. I'm so sorry—I shouldn't've—"

"Hey kid?"

"Yeah?"

"Stuff it." Wobbling, she pushed herself away from him and took a few steps backwards down the path. She seemed to strengthen even as he watched, to the point where she was able to grin crookedly at him, despite her paleness. "You know, it was good to see you again. Maybe we can do it again some time? Without the whole falling thing, of course."

"Of course." Something cold and slightly nauseating writhed within him; methodically, he quashed the feelings of guilt. She was fine, wasn't she? She was—

He gasped as she turned her back to him. A carmine stain dripped steadily onto her shirt from her wet hair. "Merlin!" he said, running towards her in time to catch her by the elbow as her knees gave way.

"Woo," she said with a dizzy smile. "The Earth's a little unsteady these days, eh?"

Harry couldn't respond, just helped her sit carefully. "Stay there for a second, okay?"

"Mmm? Sure."

He sprinted back to the pavilion and grabbed his bag, berating himself and apologizing the whole way. "I'm really, really, really, _really_ sorry about this, Angie—I mean, I can't—can't excuse myself for being so incredibly stupid and childish and stupid and—"

"Harry, darling, you're babbling," she said as he returned to where she sat in the pouring rain, hands pressed against the sidewalk in an attempt to not fall over. "It's cute and all, but you should really—hey!"

He had pulled her to her feet and wrapped one arm around her waist as she protested. "You're bleeding, and probably concussed," he said. "The least I can do is make sure you get home safely."

"Bleeding!" she exclaimed, and felt at the back of her head. She sucked in her breath in an agonized hiss as her fingers brushed against the wound. "Shit. Is it bad?"

"Um. I don't think so. Head wounds always bleed a lot, don't they?" he asked as they started down the path, Angie leaning heavily against him. Harry tried not to think of the pain in his sore wrist as he held onto the bag's strap, unwilling to let either of his burdens fall. "We should have someone look at it, though."

"Mmm. Dad's the football coach at Stonewall... he knows some first aid."

"Perfect," Harry said, even though it was as far from as could be. A venomous bubble of fear formed within his chest, squeezing the air out of his lungs and obstructing the necessary blood flow to his brain. Try as he might, he just could not think coherently. Grimacing, he ran over the facts again as they made their way back towards Privet Drive, where she also lived.

One: she knew.

Two: despite his assuaging words and tone, the amount of blood congealing in her dark hair was beginning to alarm him, as was the fact that she couldn't seem to keep her balance without wrapping her arms as tightly around his waist as she could.

Three: he had completely bollixed everything up.

His plan, before their unanticipated trip out of the pavilion, had been to get the _Prophet_ back, obliviate Angie, and then be on his merry old way. Sure, Memory Charms were dangerous things to play around with—but Harry's Charms essay, completed just the night before, had dealt with the niceties of charms that affected the brain's chemistry, so he was (relatively) certain that he could pull off a small one with no ill effects.

However, he was now positive that she had a concussion, and he wasn't stupid enough to _obliviate_ anyone in that sort of condition. Merlin only knew what sort of damage—possibly permanent—a Memory Charm could do to her in this state! No, his only hope now was to try to convince her that what she thought was a moving picture was really just a trick of the light, and that the words 'Muggle' and 'wizard' had just popped into her thoughts unexpectedly after her head was so rudely introduced to the sidewalk.

Well, one thing was certain. Any hopes that Harry had previously entertained about finding a Muggle ally in Angie—Merlin knew it would be more than a relief to have someone civil to talk to while trapped in this hellhole—were completely demolished. He only prayed that the reason behind his lack of companionship would be that she decided she hated him, not that she was... permanently incapacitated.

_Great. Just bloody brilliant, Harry. The one friendly face I have in this godforsaken world, and she'll never want to see me again. That, or she'll only want to learn more about the freak. I should've just stuck with St. Brutus'—would've done me as much good_, he thought miserably.

Angie staggered, gripping his waist again to right herself, and whimpered. It pulled him from his self-pitying soliloquy, and he clung to her as well. She was as much his anchor at that moment as he was hers, and something inside of him switched abruptly and irretrievably at that realization. He didn't know what it was, and that scared the hell out of him, but he knew that it could never go back to the way it was before (however that had been). The warmth at his side and the pain in his wrist told him as much.

"Harry," she mumbled. "Turn here. 'S my house."

He paused, looking up at the freshly-painted façade of Number Twelve, Privet Drive. Somehow, it managed to look cheery and welcoming even in this dismal weather. Maybe it was the stained glass accents around the edges of all the windows. Maybe it was the bright red geraniums in the window boxes. Or perhaps it was the yellow light spilling out through the windows, along with the distant roar of a televised football match. Whichever it was, he moved with renewed vigor up the path, half-dragging Angie along at his side.

Harry lifted one hand to press the doorbell, but was distracted as Angie's head fell heavily against his shoulder. He looked down, and something cold rose in his throat. He shook her. "Angie!" he barked, his voice sharp. "Stay bloody awake!"

"No need to swear, I'm up," she said with a small, groggy smile.

"Stay that way, damnit. And I'll swear all I bloody want."

She laughed a little as he raised his hand again. "Don't bother, Harry. Jus' go on in."

Harry obligingly opened the screen door, turning so that the bulk of his body would prevent it from closing on Angie. He pushed the heavier, dark blue door open, and kept one hand on Angie's back so that he could catch her if she started to stumble again. Soon they were both inside, though Harry had a little trouble when the strap of his shoulder bag decided to tangle itself around the screen door's handle. He dropped it onto the floor as soon as both of the doors were closed behind them, shutting out the dull roar of the storm.

"Is that you, Ange?" came a boy's voice from the same direction as the now exponentially louder match. "Ange?"

"'S me, Ian," she called, her voice a little uneven. Harry frowned as she moved slowly over to a nearby, straight-backed chair and sat down, her face still twisted in a pale expression of pain.

"Ian," he called, surprised by how deep and authoritative his voice sounded at that moment. A boy, perhaps only a year or so younger than Harry himself, poked his head out of the living room, a perplexed expression on his face. "Get your dad."

"Angie, what happened?" Ian demanded, ignoring Harry as soon as he caught sight of his bloody, disoriented sister. "What did he do to you?"

Harry scowled at the unfairness of this statement, but Angie just gave Ian a little smile. "Didn't do anything, Ian," she said, referring to Harry. "Go get Dad, wouldja?"

Ian nodded and disappeared, bellowing for his father—but not before shooting Harry the granddaddy of all evil looks.

Harry opened his mouth to ask Angie how she felt, but before he had the chance to speak, two pairs of heavy feet thumping down the stairs. He looked up abruptly; behind Ian ran a tall, wiry man with Angie's coloring. "Bloody _hell_," he swore when he saw his daughter. Without noticing the drenched boy standing ambivalently in the doorway, he escorted Angie into the kitchen; Harry tagged along behind Ian, anxious to know how she was. "What happened, Ian? She's soaked!"

"I dunno, Dad," Ian said, his brows knit with worry as he hovered over the pair. Mr. MacTavish had guided his daughter to a chair by the kitchen table, and was parting the hair on the back of her head to expose the wound. Harry looked away, unable to stomach the sight. "I just heard the door open, and there she was! Then that bloke with her tol—"

"Bloke?" Mr. MacTavish snarled. Harry was forcibly reminded of Ron's reaction when he learned that Ginny was going out with Michael Corner. "_Bloke_? What bloke?"

It suddenly occurred to Harry that leaving earlier probably would have been the smartest course of action. Mr. MacTavish was_ fuming_. "Er... me, sir," he said, now doubly grateful for the fact that his voice no longer belonged to a boy.

If Ian's glower was enough to give Harry a high fever, then Mr. MacTavish's should have rightly put Harry six feet below. "What happened?" he snapped.

"We—we ran into each at the pavilion in the park. It started to rain; I guess we both wanted some... some shelter..." he said, his voice growing steadily smaller as he spoke. _How do I continue without having Mr. MacTavish call either the police or the mental hospital?_ he wondered with a brief stab of fear.

"I slipped on the stairs."

Harry's eyebrows rose so high that they disappeared beneath his unruly, sopping fringe. He looked to Angie and released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Her own brows her knotted, as though she was trying very hard to focus on something. That intense pale gaze was fixed firmly on his face.

"Harry tried to catch me, but—but we both fell. I hit my head on the sidewalk. He helped me home. So be _nice_, Ian," she added with a growl.

Harry looked over in the younger boy's direction to see another set of pale, black-ringed eyes fixed on him, but with a considerably darker emotion behind them.

"I think she has a concussion," Harry said, turning his gaze back to Angie, who was smiling very faintly at him. He couldn't believe that she was covering for him. Had she forgotten? Bad concussions could lead to amnesia, couldn't they?

"She does," Mr. MacTavish agreed. His voice was still rather cool, but had at least lost the majority of its hostility. "The cut's not deep though. Just a scrape. Ian, go get the Tylenol and the iodine solution, would you? You, boy," the older man said, glancing sidelong at Harry. "Pour a glass of water."

Once he had done this, he lingered anxiously in the corner of the kitchen, unwilling to intrude on the family's crisis, but disinclined to leave until he knew that Angie would be better. He was very, very cold without the warmth of her body pressed up against his side.

Footsteps pounded back down the stairs, and a moment later Ian skidded into the kitchen, nearly slipping in some of the water that Harry and Angie had tracked in. Harry winced as Ian righted himself and passed the pills and bottle to his father. "Here, take this, baby," Mr. MacTavish crooned, offering a dose of the former to his daughter.

Harry looked away again as Mr. MacTavish carefully applied iodine to the scrape, but couldn't block out Angie's pained whimper. Instead, he set about looking for a cloth. He found a suitable one—it looked a little ratty, like it was used for the most menial of jobs—hanging from a magnetic hook on the front of the dishwasher. He took it up and, avoiding Ian's curious gaze, headed towards the doorway, dropped to his knees, and started scrubbing. Water trickled from his hair and trailed over his face, pooling on his forehead where it dripped to the floor. He wiped it from his face with the back of his hand, and resumed viciously scouring the linoleum.

"Ian, make sure she gets upstairs safely. She needs to change out of these wet things. And keep her awake."

"I'm not going to fall asleep, Dad," Angie said with her ubiquitous small smile. The way her eyelids drooped heavily belied her assuring words.

"Watch her," Mr. MacTavish repeated after a moment. Harry scooted to the side to allow Ian and his sister to pass, but didn't look up. In fact, he didn't stop scrubbing, either. The rag was now soaked and was doing a poor job of mopping up the puddles. "_You_."

Harry froze. Mr. MacTavish could only be speaking to him; Angie and Ian were already making the treacherous trek up the stairs. Swallowing hard, he rose slowly to his feet, meeting Mr. MacTavish's eyes. They were dark—almost black, in fact. While his children had clearly inherited his dark hair and delicate complexion, they must have their late mother's eyes. "Yes, sir?"

"Come here. You're bleeding."

Harry looked down in surprise, and saw that he was indeed bleeding. The new skin formed by the _percuro_ charm had been completely scraped away on his left hand, and the abrasion continued down his wrist and halfway to his elbow. It wasn't too painful, but it was slowly oozing crimson. Obediently, he sat down in the seat that Angie had recently absented, and held his arm out.

"You look familiar," Mr. MacTavish said, wiping the blood away with surprising gentleness. "Do you live around here?"

"Yeah. I live with the Dursleys." He bit back a yelp as, while applying the iodine, Mr. MacTavish's hand jerked, brushing against the grazed area harder than necessary. He looked up to find the man's eyes fixed on his face, his jaw slackened ever so slightly. "Er... sir?"

"Harry Potter?"

He winced. Of _course_ Mr. MacTavish would be shocked. After all, his daughter had been saved—_yeah, right_—by one of the community's most notorious and disliked members, that juvenile delinquent who had been sent to St. Brutus's Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. "Yes, sir," he acknowledged glumly.

Harry's frown transmogrified into a flabbergasted expression as Mr. MacTavish's dark eyes slid smoothly from the boy's face to the place where, hidden beneath the wet tendrils of black hair, a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt lay.


End file.
